Thomas staggered forward, his head swimming, visions of magical force floating in his eyes, his mind. He had to walk, to find food, to prevail in the hunt. His senses were overloaded now, and he relied on instinct.
With the vestiges of his rational mind he set up a pattern of movement on the deck. It would move in a series of concentric circles, to keep everyone off their feet, and certain spots were set like traps, ready to grab with great wooden fingers.
The ones above would therefore stay above, and he would peruse the below at his leisure. To find succor.
A door stood in his way. His door. They’re all my doors! The whole ship is mine!
He wanted to go. He would go. He willed it, so it would be.
The door exploded outwards, smoking splinters flying in all directions, peppering the hallway and open door across from him.
His stormstalk lay dead on the floor before him. A bloody shiruken still stuck in the thing’s body.
The stalk is dead. Orphan did it. Which betrayed me first?
He looked out, into the other room, Delegado’s room. He felt the boards wriggling from his neck and shoulder twitch.
The changeling was there, lying facedown, unmoving. Electrical burns were on her skin.
She was naked.
Mine.
She was paralyzed, her nerves damaged by the stormstalk.
Succor.
He’d seen it before. His loyal stormstalk.
Want.
He was barely cognizant of shedding the last of his clothes as he crouched behind her. Suddenly, viciously, enjoying the pure physicality of it, he flipped her over.
He was rewarded with awe in her eyes. Awe or terror.
“Thomas,” she gasped, barely able to speak. “You-your face.”
Mine.
He grabbed her, and she tried to scream, but he did not care.
Take what is mine.
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